chemical override (10)
Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader
a/n: as dictated by the results of poll #6, this chapter will include stunt training, clubbing, and an accident. Plus, you've got tub anon to thank for... well... the tub scene :) Oh, and this is kind of 18+. Just a tad.
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Matt and the reader eagerly explore the uncharted waters of their budding relationship. Ewan is booked and busy with the preparation for his new franchise. Will Ewan and his darling even find time for each other, or should they just take this opportunity to let go?
The internet, ever so informative, lets you know that Ewan and Jenna’s arrangement is in its initial stages before he even calls to tell you.
Their first interview with Josh Horowitz is immediately followed by another feature on the movie set, with the two talking about the pre-production, what they liked about the script, and their chemistry, which according to them, came naturally and did not require much work at all. It was practically the thing they had to work on the least. How lucky.
A lighthearted reprieve came in the form of a meme that started circulating not long after their interview with Josh. In it, Ewan is caught looking like he's either malfunctioning or deep in a philosophical crisis. The internet ran with it, with captions like, ‘When you realise you left the oven on at home’, to comparing him to an NPC glitching out.
When you asked him about it, he quickly stammered that he simply spaced out. Sure. It was hilarious, nonetheless.
Your publicist Mallory had commented that soon Ewan and Jenna would be obliged to go on pap walks, something that would appear casual and separate from the confines of the project that they’re working on. Something that signals that their relationship is making it into the real world.
“That whole casual ‘just friends hanging out’ vibe they’re gonna push? It’s all part of the gig,” Mallory shared. “Next thing you know, they’ll be taking long walks on the beach or grabbing coffee in some trendy LA spot.”
You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting. Even just a little. Sure, you know what the business is like. You’ve been on the same end of that deal just recently, with your own film’s PR efforts. But this arrangement that Ewan has doesn’t seem like the usual short-term fling to drum up buzz. It feels… heavy, like something that might actually stick.
“I’d be lying if I say I don’t find it all annoying, darling, but I try to look at it now as part of the job, you know?” he had said, when he phoned you one evening – his afternoon – to let you know that his stay in LA would be much longer than expected.
You responded with, “Oh, yeah, I completely understand.” What else can you do? You aren’t together – you don’t have a claim to him, and vice versa. You thought that would make things better – easier – but you’re still waiting for that sense of comfort to kick in.
This is for the best, you would remind yourself every time a new headline surfaces.
It’s only been a month since you last properly saw Ewan, since that night on the rooftop. In the early days, he messaged every day, called whenever he had a spare moment. But slowly, the calls have become shorter, more sporadic – chalked up to his increasingly busy schedule. Your tones have become more dispassionate – he blames it on his exhaustion, profusely swearing that he misses you so fucking much, but something feels different.
Your job keeps you busy, with your commitments related to the new season of House of the Dragon, event appearances, and gearing up for the release of your film with Jacob. You are even invited to the upcoming Vanity Fair Young Hollywood Ball, an exclusive party to be held in New York.
And Matt is a more than welcome distraction.
Matt, who has begun spending more time in your apartment after Ewan’s temporary move to LA. Matt, who brings you flowers that are apparently ‘beautiful, but pales in comparison to you’. Matt, who is unfailingly a gentleman, respecting your boundaries and not making a move since that time on your couch after your first date, when you told him to wait.
He sits with you by your kitchen counter, in a disarmingly tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination, one sturdy hand nursing a cup of coffee and the other on the small of your back to support you as you sit on the high stool, and you suddenly don’t want him to wait anymore.
“Have you decided on what you’ll be wearing to the screening tonight, love?” he asks.
“Why? Does it have to be pre-approved?” you playfully quip, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Ah,” he nods, smiling, playing along, “of course, of course. You think I’m an easy man to date? You’ve got to keep up with my standards, as beautiful as you already are.”
You laugh, playfully mussing his hair, and he catches your wrist before it drops back on the counter. He says, “I ask because I wanted to match you, so to speak. We’d be like two peas in a pod.”
“Oh,” you snort softly, “or you know, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”
“Funny girl,” he muses, before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a soft kiss, caffeinated and warm and Matty. You notice that his hand on your back is pressed firmer – he didn’t want you to slip when you leaned in.
Charming bastard. He isn’t making things any easier… or maybe he is.
Maybe he’s it.
But the moment’s broken by a loud, offended-sounding meow. You look down to see Sansa, staring at Matt like he’s personally responsible for all the world’s problems.
“Hey, babygirl,” Matt croons, extending a hand toward her. Sansa, the biggest diva of a kitten, just gives him a slow blink before trotting off, clearly unimpressed.
“Calling her babygirl isn’t going to make her warm up to you,” you tease.
“She already doesn’t seem to like me,” he replies, scoffing. “Which is a shock, pretty much, how can she not?”
“So humble, Matthew.” You smile at his effortless charm, his easy personality. That’s all you seem to be doing nowadays. Matt is like your personal ray of sunshine.
“I’ll win her over,” he declares confidently, sitting upright. “Anything for my lady.”
You roll your eyes. “How very Daemon of you.”
“Actually,” he laughs, “Daemon would probably feed her to Caraxes for being difficult.”
“Matthew!”
“I’m kidding!”
Sansa meows even louder, bounding away towards your bedroom.
“Leave my Sansa alone,” you say, pointing at him accusingly.
He gives you a sly grin. “I will… if you come here and give me another kiss.”
Before you can respond, he slides your stool closer to his with a smooth movement, catching you off guard. You find yourself practically in his lap, his thighs pressing against yours as he waits, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Okay,” you sigh deeply, narrowing your eyes, unable to mask the smile that graces your lips. “One kiss, but only for Sansa.”
“Oh, shush and kiss me already, love.”
The film screening had been a private event, by invitation only from those who worked on the film. Edward Bluemel, Matt’s good friend, is a fellow actor marking his directorial debut with this film. For a first go, it was impressive, gripping from start to finish. Almost as much as Matt’s hand resting just above your knee, his thumb absentmindedly tracing soft circles into your skin.
Your cheeks had flushed when a particularly steamy scene came on the screen, and it might have been the nervous gremlins in your mind, but you swore Matt’s hand inched higher up your leg.
Now, on your couch, his hand is even higher. He hovers over you, his breath heavy and uneven as his fingers tease at the warmth between your thighs, so close to where you’re already aching for him.
Maybe it was all the dirty martinis you drank at the open bar after the screening, or maybe this was a long time coming. Either way, you want him, and from the way his lips move urgently against yours, he wants you too.
It dawns on you that the tension is no longer something you can talk yourself out of.
He pulls away, and you protest with a mewling whine, your body arching into him. He nearly growls in frustration, the unspeakable sound you just made having a direct line to his hardened cock. With a gentle tug at the nape of his neck, you pull him back down to your lips, but he resists.
“We have to slow down,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Because we’re about to cross a line that I won’t be able to hold back from, love.”
“Matt – ”
“I understand – ” He licks his lips, letting out a slow and controlled breath. “ – that you want to wait – ”
Your confession comes out slow and measured, letting him know that this is what you really want. “Maybe I don’t want… to wait anymore.”
“Say that again,” he says slowly, his eyes darkening in lust.
“Maybe I… I want you to fuck me.”
“Maybe?” he whispers, his voice rough, practically pleading.
“Oh, just fuck me.”
That’s all it takes for him to snap.
He undresses you in record time, ripping off every item of clothing from your body with an eagerness that betrays just how hungry he is for you.
Neither of you even bother to travel to your bedroom. At some point, your entwined naked bodies slip off the couch and onto your plush carpet.
And you have a heated… What was it called again?
Oh right – a damn good roll in the hay.
The water is still warm in your deep clawfoot tub, steam rising gently from the surface. You lean back, head resting against the porcelain, that blissful post-sex daze settling over you.
Matt slides into the water opposite you, his movements slow, deliberate. His eyes haven’t left you since he stepped in, and you can feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin. It isn’t just the remnants of your earlier intimacy – though that heat still hummed in the air between you – it’s something more. Something you can’t name and maybe you’re afraid to, but it tugs at you all the same.
A small smile plays on his lips, the kind that made your chest tighten – half teasing, half dangerous.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and smooth.
You exhale a soft laugh, running your fingers lazily through the water, trailing small ripples across the surface. “I’m not exactly complaining, am I?”
“Good. Wouldn’t want you to have second thoughts.” His tone is light, but the undercurrent of meaning isn’t lost on you.
You close your eyes, letting the warm water soothe your tired muscles, but even with the comfort of the bath, you can’t quite escape the one person lingering in the back of your mind.
Matt isn’t Ewan, but he’s here, his presence steady, his charm disarming. He makes you laugh, makes you feel wanted in ways that are simple and uncomplicated, and maybe that’s what you need right now. Maybe it was okay to let yourself enjoy this, to live in this moment without overthinking what it meant.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Matt asks, leaning forward.
You open your eyes, catching the glint of amusement in his. “Just... thinking.”
“Dangerous territory,” he teases, reaching for your hand.
“Hmm, maybe,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “You’re too charming for your own good, you know that?”
He chuckles deeply. “I’ve been told. But I like to think it’s part of my appeal.”
You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Cocky bastard.”
He grins, leaning in even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Takes one to know one.” His hand travels to your leg underneath the water, massaging gently.
“I’m serious, though,” he says softly, his voice taking on a more earnest tone. “I don’t want you overthinking this. We’re good, yeah?”
You nod, but there is a flicker of something else in your chest. Guilt, maybe? But Matt is right here, and he isn’t asking for anything more than what you could give, and for now, that is more than enough.
“We’re good,” you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.
He smiles against your mouth, his hand moving to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Good,” he whispers back, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
You laugh, the sound muffled as he kisses you again and positions you on top of him. You shuffle forward and discover a very obvious indication that he’s ready for round two of rolling in the hay. Or in the tub. Whatever works.
He looks absolutely enraptured when you ride him, your motions causing tremors in the water.
And in the sheer pleasure he gives you, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the smell of lavender, you allow yourself to let go.
The event has the industry buzzing - an exclusive event by Vanity Fair celebrating the rising stars of Hollywood. A masquerade party, the notion of which excited you to no end. You’d only read about such in books, in its medieval iterations, all poofy skirts and velvet waistcoats, the whole concept full of prestige and mystery.
You spent days prepping with your team, the anticipation building until it felt like a living thing inside you. Your dress, a beautiful piece from Atelier Versace, fits like a glove, one side made of draped black sequins shimmering like liquid night against your skin. The theme is Midnight Elysium, and you look every bit the part - dangerous and glamourous and untouchable.
Your makeup team did an impeccable job. Your eyeshadow resembles a swirling galaxy, a blend of silver and noir. Your lipstick is a perfect nude shade that matches your skin tone and your features.
But then there was the mask. The final, necessary touch. Delicate black lace that settles over your eyes, framed with gold filigree and flecks of silver – sharp and ethereal at once. It was a piece of art, something you personally commissioned from a local designer in your hometown.
In a room where everyone claims to know everyone, a mask can be more than just a costume piece. It can be a weapon – giving you the freedom to be both seen and unseen.
Stepping into the nightclub is like slipping in between worlds. Black velvet drapes line the walls, catching the glow of the minimal lighting – gold and silver chandeliers hanging like constellations. The bass from the music pulses underfoot, sending vibrations through your veins. Faces are obscured by extravagant masks, but you are able to recognise some of them if you look close enough. Milly is speaking to someone by the bar, and you remind yourself to pull her aside for a chat later. Timothee is introducing his date to a small flock of people. And Jacob is bounding right for you the moment you make eye contact.
“There’s my leading lady,” he greets cheerfully, swooping down to kiss you on both cheeks. He’s wearing a metallic silver vest and trousers, along with a white mask that covers one side of his face like The Phantom.
“Wow,” you say, making a show of appraising him, looking at all 6 foot 5 inches of his figure up and down. “You look like a handsome disco ball.”
He laughs, the sound unmistakable even in the bustling nightclub. “And look at you! What are you, a cyberpunk witch? A sleek dominatrix?”
“Careful now,” you warn him, “or I might just hex you into getting me a drink.”
“Coming right up,” he says, but his attention is pulled by someone calling his name. “Hold on a sec, I have to introduce you to some of my friends.” You let him lead you further into the room, and you’re swept into the rhythm of it all, moving through the crowd as if you belong – because you do. You’re slowly getting used to the weight of eyes on you, but tonight, it feels as if there’s a shadow you can’t quite shake.
Your personal shadow in a room full of masked shadows. Your skin prickles, an awareness blooming under your ribs. In all the fuss leading up to this event, you hadn’t really bothered to check the full roster of attendees.
After several rounds of conversation, you excuse yourself for a moment and stand off to the side to take a breather.
And then you see him.
Ewan stands across the room, a drink in hand, his black leather overcoat tailored to perfection. The mask he wears, a sharp cut of black and gold, adds a dangerous air to him. His effortlessly tousled hair sports a smattering of gold embellishments, like streaks of pale blonde hair. You take him in, every inch of him, that mischievous curve of his lips and the glint of his blue eyes underneath that mask.
It hits you like a tidal wave, like a fucking hurricane, the longing you’ve tried to suppress for weeks.
You shouldn’t want him this much, not when you both agreed to the break. To keep some distance. His fake romantic arrangement had made sure of that. And after everything, you knew that some separation was what you both needed.
But seeing him now, looking at you like he’s starving… it’s enough to unravel every careful thread you’d stitched together since you last touched. You want to look away, pretend that this is just another night, that he’s just another fellow actor among the crowd. But the pull is too strong. It’s as if your legs move on their own volition, and you slowly move through the crowd, almost subconsciously drawn to him.
He steps deeper into the shadows of the club as you approach, disappearing into one of the more secluded alcoves draped in heavy black velvet. No one will see you there. No one will know any better.
The world narrows down to just the two of you, and the music becomes a distant hum. It’s quieter, darker, and for all the trappings of the Hollywood elite, Ewan is far more intoxicating.
“You’re here,” you whisper, half in question, half in disbelief.
But he’s already moving towards you, his eyes dark and hungry behind the mask. The air between you crackles with an undeniable need – weeks of distance, of longing, building up to this moment. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth of his body through your dress, and you so badly want to forget that this is a bad idea.
“I can’t stay away,” he says, his voice low and raw, like it’s costing him to hold back. “Not tonight.”
You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest, every rational thought slipping away as his fingers skim the bare skin of your waist through the slits in your dress. “We… we can’t,” you manage to say, but even to your own ears, it sounds weak. Oh, who are you trying to fool?
“How can I not? Fuck, how can you look like that and expect me to just walk away?”
You want to say something, something sensible, something to remind him of the stakes. But nothing comes to mind, not when his hand brushes up your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. His other hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you. He dips his head down, breathing against your shoulders and your neck, taking you in like a vice.
“Ewan,” you finally croak. “We agreed not to – ”
“I don’t bloody care,” he cuts you off, his mouth inches from yours. “We agreed to give it some time, sure, but I never agreed to stop wanting you. Besides, I make good on what’s asked of me. I play the part. I deserve to be rewarded, don’t I? And you’re the only prize I desire.”
His words hit you hard, melting any resistance you’d been clinging to.
“Oh? So… so I’m just a prize now?”
He only smiles. “The only one worth winning.”
Before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you pull him closer and crash your lips into his.
The kiss is hard, fierce, his mouth feverishly attacking yours. He tastes bittersweet, all hard bourbon and cigarettes. You’re certain that the lipstick your makeup artist painstakingly applied would be wiped clean off. His hands grip you harder, fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough.
You break apart, gasping for breath. His lips are slick, shining in the occasional flicker of neon blue and red lights, his mask casting shadows across his sharp features.
A bright flash from the party's official photographer erupts in the corner, thankfully not pointed in your direction. Still, it momentarily shakes both of you back to reality.
“Come with me.” His hand slips into yours, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you away from the cacophony of the club. You barely have time to react before you’re being led down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. He pushes open a door, leading you into a smaller room bathed in that same cold, electric blue. Plush seating is arranged haphazardly in the corners, but the space is mostly empty. The low hum of the bass still thrums in the distance, but it’s reduced to a faint echo. The smell gives off cigarette smoke and spilled liquor.
“Smoking area,” he says with a half-smirk, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time himself. “I think.”
“You think?” You raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs, utterly unconcerned. “Who cares? It’s just us in here.”
You shoot him a look, glancing back at the door. “Someone could walk in.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, that familiar heat radiating off him like a furnace. “It’s a party, darling. They’re probably wasted out of their minds. And besides…” He taps the edge of his mask, his eyes glinting mischievously behind the black and gold. “The masks?”
You bite your lip, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “And if someone does walk in?” you ask, arching a brow. “What then?”
He steps closer, crowding into your space, the tension thick between you. “Then they get a show,” he says, his voice playful and teasing, but laced with something darker.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“You can still walk away, darling,” he offers, trying to bait you when he knows full well that he already has you hooked. “Or, you can just shut up and kiss me.”
So much for giving it time. Ewan’s lips find yours once more, just as desperate, and you barely notice when he directs you to the seating, your back colliding with its velvet exterior. His low groan sends a wave of heat pooling in your stomach, and you think to yourself, this was a terrible idea.
Your hands roam, finding the planes of his chest. He smoothly takes off his leather overcoat, revealing his bare torso underneath. The sight of it makes your head spin, and you croak unsteadily, “Ewan… not here, baby, we can’t – ”
“I know, darling,” he croons, his hand cradling your face. “I just wanna kiss you. I just want you… to touch me…” His other hand takes yours and drags it down the firm lines of his stomach, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Please, just – ”
The moment is abruptly shattered by the sound of giggling from the hallway, getting louder. Suddenly, the door opens and in stumbles a pair of girls, one of them you recognise to be Jenna.
“Oh!” The other girl exclaims, clearly delighted by the situation she’s just walked into. She pulls off her mask, revealing herself as Emma Myers. “We found him! We finally found your date.”
Your heart plummets, right down on the liquor stained carpet.
“Hi,” you manage to squeak, getting to your feet and smoothing down your dress which had ridden scandalously higher up your thighs. “I’m – ”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Jenna says, shaking your hand, not the least bit bothered by the state she found you and Ewan in. “I love your work. I’m Jenna.”
“Oh… thank you – ”
Emma steps in, grinning. “Hi! I’m Emma. I’m such a fan.”
“Oh my god, I should be saying that to you guys!” you blurt, feeling a rush of relief at their easy demeanour. “I love Wednesday.”
They both gasp, and soon the three of you are exchanging compliments like old friends, chatting about each other's work with enthusiasm. Ewan, still seated, watches the scene unfold with barely concealed frustration. He eventually stands, shrugging his leather coat back on, and glances at Jenna.
“One of our producers is here,” Jenna explains cheerfully. “She’d love to chat with both of us.”
Right. Ewan’s her date. The word echoes in your mind, but the jealousy you expected to feel is oddly muted now.
Ewan speaks, addressing only you, “Darling, will you – ”
“I’ve got her,” Emma declares, looping her arm around yours. “I’ve got so much I want to ask you!” Before you know it, she leads you out of the room like you’ve been best friends for years.
Ewan’s eyes stay on you, full of frustration and yearning, even as he and Jenna follow you out the door.
But you barely see him for the rest of the night.
The party is a blur of celebrities and conversations, but your mind keeps drifting back to that stolen moment in the blue-lit room. Eventually, your social battery runs out, and you slip out of the club early, unnoticed by most.
Back at your hotel, you peel off your dress and drop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the night replay in your head. The feeling of his hands on your skin, the heat of his body pressed against yours – it’s all too much.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping you out of your thoughts. Ewan One-Eye flashes across the screen.
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, but you pick up. His voice is low, almost cautious. “You left early.”
“I was tired,” you reply, voice soft. “The party was great but it was... a lot.” Mainly because of him.
A beat of silence follows, and you wonder if he's wrestling with what to say next. “Are you okay?” You can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, eyes dark with worry.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say, unable to hide the tremble in your voice.
Another long pause, with only his slow breathing on the other end.
“I hate this,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, the raw emotion in his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I fucking hate that he gets to have you, and I don’t… and I can’t… ” He cuts himself off, and you hear the snap of his lighter followed by his sharp exhale.
You bite your lip, your throat tight with emotion. You’ve both been so careful, dancing around each other, pretending that you could stay apart.
“I’m flying back to London tomorrow night,” you blurt out, the words rushing out before you can stop them. It feels like a confession, like you’re admitting defeat.
“I need to see you before you go.”
“Ewan, we agreed – ”
“Fuck what we agreed!” His sudden outburst takes you by surprise, and you hear the raw need in his voice. “I don’t care about the arrangement, I don’t care about the distance. I just... I need you.”
You want to tell him that you need him too. You want to throw caution to the wind and agree to being together in secret despite the false romance he has to portray to the world. But you can’t.
“I...” Your voice falters. “We’ll see each other soon.” It doesn’t feel like enough. With a soft sigh, you add on a lighter note, “Alyna still has to kick Aemond’s ass, you know.”
A beat passes, and then you hear his tired laugh on the other end. “Right,” he chuckles softly, the sound both comforting and heartbreaking. “Wouldn’t want to keep the fans waiting for that.”
“Yeah, well,” you say, trying for casual, trying not to let your voice crack, “someone’s got to put Aemond in his place.”
“Hmm, well if that place happens to be right in Alyna’s arms, I doubt you’ll hear any complaints about the script from me this time.”
You can’t help but smile at his teasing, but it only deepens the ache in your heart.
“Ewan…” you begin, but the words hang in the air, unspoken.
“I know, darling,” he replies, his tone resigned yet gentle. “I miss you too.”
The training room is alive with the sounds of clashing swords and laughter, but you can’t help but feel a different kind of electricity buzzing in the air. Maybe it’s just the way Matt looks at you, as you rehearse a scene where Daemon helps Alyna brush up on her sword fighting.
You lunge forward, initiating the first move with confidence, and he counters effortlessly, the blades clashing in a symphony of steel. The practice moves are intense, each swing bringing you closer. His eyes darken with focus as he follows your movements, and for a moment, it becomes easy to forget the rest of the stunt crew in the room.
“Nice footwork,” Matt compliments, stepping in closer. His body brushes against yours, sending a rush of heat through you. Ever since your night together, he has only been more brazen with his affections. “But you’re leaving yourself open here.” He demonstrates, his sword brushing against your side as he adjusts your stance.
“There,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “feel that?” You swallow nervously, grateful that the stunt coordinator had moved on to Harry in the far side of the room.
“I think I might be too open,” you manage to say, trying to keep your tone light.
“Maybe,” Matt murmurs, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “But I can’t help but want to close the distance.”
As you move through the choreography, you both fall into a rhythm, and almost inevitably, the fight turns into something more playful. You circle each other, exchanging faux blows and laughter, the distracting banter causing the stunt director to approach and get you both back on track.
Next up, you have to train for Alyna’s pivotal scene where she attempts to mount Caraxes as per Daemon’s command.
As you practice the mounting technique on the mechanical dragon, you’re hyper-aware of every movement. The crew watches closely, ready to offer guidance. You grip the handles tightly, adrenaline coursing through your veins, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in the character, feeling the thrill of the scene.
But then it happens. The Buck jolts unexpectedly, throwing you off balance. Time seems to slow as you feel yourself slipping. You try to brace for impact, but it’s too late. You land hard, the pain shooting through your ankle as it twists at an unnatural angle.
There is a stinging sensation too, by the side of your head, and all you think is – oh fuck. The world around you fades to a blur, just as chaos erupts.
When you finally regain consciousness, the sterile scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils. Your surroundings come into focus slowly, and your heart races when you realise you’re in a hospital room. The steady beep of a monitor is the only sound, punctuated by the faint rustle of fabric.
You feel his hand on yours before your eyes even land on his figure, slumped on a chair beside your bed. His head rests on his shoulder, his grip still lightly holding your hand. His brow is furrowed in worry, even in sleep.
You feel lightheaded, and for a moment you worry that your concussion might be worse than it is, but no. It's just him.
Then, the sound of your movement catches his attention. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and when he meets your gaze, relief instantly washes over his features.
“Love… you’re awake.”
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Some notes in the margins...
Well, well, well. Yous were convinced that Matty would get the clubbing scene, helped by the red herring of his dancing video. Alas!
Is that Matty at the end there? Or a certain Mitchelly man? Hmm... one wonders. 💖
Complaints? Refund requests? Please direct your thoughts in the comments section below. I can 100% guarantee a satisfying solution. Or 70%.
Or, you know, bugger it. We're all in this together, better or worse ❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
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If you’re taking requests: I saw an edit on TikTok of Daryl and Merle. It was Merle hitting on the reader and it uses the “would you look at the time, I’ve gotta get home and sleep with your brother” audio, I was wondering if you could do a fic, even a short one, with that kinda vibe / theme.
If your request aren’t open, just stopping by to say I love your page ❤️
The Great Escape | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
Summary: Merle Dixon made no secret of his interest in you, making you aware of that with his vulgar comments. However, you had no interest in him, and he just couldn’t seem to accept that. Thankfully, Daryl was there to help you out, even if your accidental slip of the tongue could have potentially pissed the older Dixon off.
Genre: I don’t really know.
Era: Pre Apocalypse.
Warnings: Swearing, suggestive innuendos towards the end.
Word count: 1.2k.
A/N: I love that sound on TikTok. It’s hilarious to me. I hope this is an okay attempt at that sort of vibe! This was written in under an hour so this could potentially not be that great. And thank you so much, my love 💜.
The need to escape increased with each second that ticked on the metaphorical clock. You continuously shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you prayed to whatever higher entity was listening that you could flee from the awkward predicament you were unwillingly partaking in. You kept checking the time on your watch, wishing that the small metal object that rested snuggly around your wrist could help you vanish from the comments Merle Dixon was making towards you.
It was no secret to the man in front of you that none of the women in the bar you worked at liked him. Each night, like clockwork, the Dixon brothers rolled into the bar, and as soon as the older one even lays an eye on one of the female bartenders, vulgar comments gets spewed left and right. And at that particular moment in time, you were the target of Merle’s objectification.
“M’tellin’ ya, girl. I ain’t never seen anyone with an ass that bounces like yers. S’enough to make any man hungry to see more,” Merle drunkenly slurred on, leisurely sipping on his beer as he leaned against the counter top. If he leaned any closer, he would be able to peer down your shirt, and that knowledge made you uncomfortable.
“Um... Thank you?” you ‘thanked’ him, your eyes nervously darting around as you hoped to lock eyes with those familiar cerulean ones you had grown to love looking at. Daryl Dixon had been your saviour from Merle countless times before, and you hoped to be able to have his help again. And you would be able to see that beautiful smile of his when he inevitably walks you to your car, so that was a nice plus.
“Yer welcome, sweet cheeks,” Merle laughed, doing what you had feared and leaned closer. However, you managed to back up just in time, preventing him from seeing what you didn’t want him to. You doubted that the man had intentionally wanted to look down your shirt, though, and your suspicions were proven correct when he had reached for the bowl of Doritos you kept behind the counter. Merle Dixon could be a nasty guy, but even he knew there were boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed with permission.
“Tell you what,” Merle began, his eyes sparkling as he looked at you, snapping you from your thoughts. “How ‘bout the two’a us ditch this joint and find a nice motel for the night? I promise ya won’t regret it.”
Your eyes widened at his innuendo. In a last ditch effort to free yourself from his advances, you looked around again to see if you could find Daryl. Thankfully, by some stroke of luck, you managed to find his eyes.
His eyes scanned over your face, and he could instantly read the distress on your features. His eyes darted to Merle, and then back to you, and he instantly realized what you meant. “Dinner?” he mouthed to you, like he always did whenever you needed to escape. Parking at the bar was practically nonexistent, so you always parked your car by this small diner down the street. More often than not, he’d buy you both a burger and fries, saving you the need to make dinner at two in the morning.
With one last glance at your watch, you noticed your shift had ended, just in time, too. “Um... I’m sorry. I can’t,” you told him, grabbing your bag from the floor and slinging it over your shoulder. Then, without even fully realizing what you said next, you began to walk away. “I’ve gotta go and sleep with your brother.”
Eat. You had fully intended to say eat. However, the damage was already done, and you had to stick with it. You scrambled to get away from Merle’s piercing glare, aware of the fact that you had just royally pissed him off.
“Yer gon’ fuckin’ what?!” he bellowed loudly. A few heads turned to look at the commotion, but you had already started making yourself scarce.
You practically sprinted towards Daryl, grabbing his hand and pulling him with you. You missed the way his cheeks flushed bright red at the feeling of your hand in his, too occupied with getting out of that place. Once outside, you let go of Daryl’s hand, though your pace didn’t falter.
Daryl jogged a few steps to fall into pace with you, and only then did he notice the embarrassed look on your face. “What’s wrong? What’d Merle do?”
You shook your head. “Nothing out of the usual. I’m fine.” You turned your head to look at Daryl, a sheepish smile on your face. “Although Merle might be pissed at you when you get home tonight?”
Daryl cocked an eyebrow at that. “Why? What’d I do?”
“It’s not anything you did. It’s what he thinks you did.” With a heavy sigh, you continued. “I might have accidentally told him I was gonna go sleep with you instead of eat...”
Daryl’s eyes widened at your statement, his heart beginning to gallop in his chest. However, he forced himself to appear nonchalant. He scoffed and turned his head away, thanking the night sky for its particular darkness that night, because it meant you wouldn’t be able to see how his cheeks burned with a heat that outranked that of the sun.
“Well, would ya look at that?” he began, his tone adapting a more playful one, both in an attempt to make you feel better and to lessen his own embarrassment. “Looks like Merle ain’t got nothin’ on me after all. I managed to snag a good-lookin’ one, too. M’damn lucky.”
You laughed at him, your pace slowing down when you noticed the diner coming into view. “Be sure to sing my praise to your brother. Let him know what he can’t have. Make him really jealous.” In a surge of confidence, you turned to him with a mischievous smile. “I’ve been told my head game is really good. Be sure to expand on that.”
“Christ almighty, girl,” he muttered to himself, his head ducking as a way to shield his blazing cheeks, and the curiosity in his eyes at your statement. Just how good was good? “Ya sure know how to make a man curious.”
You giggled softly at him. Cleverly sensing that any more teasing would have the man in front of you combusting from sheer embarrassment, you decided to change the topic. “How about I buy dinner tonight? It’s the least I can do to make up for the awkwardness you’re gonna experience once you get home.”
“More like a good yellin’ at,” Daryl told you, but he shrugged his shoulders and sent you a small, lopsided smile. “But sure.”
With that, the two of you walked into the diner. However, instead of getting takeout like you usually would, the two of you opted to take a seat in one of the booths, basking in the privacy that the late hour provided you. The two of you shared your meals over faint laughter, shared jokes, and even some flirting here and there, which was a stark difference from Daryl’s usually shy demeanour.
Daryl ended up going home with you, and he may or may not have gotten to expand on his curiosity at your earlier comment.
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Falling in Reverse (Dazai Osamu x Reader) Part Two
I meant to write more of this like...two years ago? My bad. I hope you enjoy despite that! <3
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This is fine.
You kept on thinking it as you sat there, trying to pay attention.
You told yourself to stop it. Stop nitpicking, finding fault with every little thing and refusing to live in the moment for a solitary fucking second. You could feel your fingers twitching with desperation to check your messages, and nearly sit on your hands in an effort to stop yourself. You poured your focus into acting normal instead, nodding in the right places, making encouraging noises, keeping your facial expression open and inviting instead of sliding into boredom or irritation…
It's a fucking lot of work.
The guy – his name was Ken-something, he said what it was when you sat down but the bar was kind of loud and the chance to get him to repeat it somehow slipped past you – was good-looking enough but he wasn’t especially interesting to talk to, and he kept looking around the bar like he was expecting something. He asked the basic questions, but you got the feeling he wasn’t really listening when you answered. The only time he did seem intrigued was when you mentioned your job. You kept it vague, since the Armed Detective Agency wasn’t popular with some people, and he’d lost interest when you clarified it was just a desk job.
“So you don’t get to get out much?” he asked, with a lopsided smirk like he’d made some hilarious sexual innuendo you hadn’t got yet.
“Oh, you know, I run errands sometimes.” You replied, pretending to think hard about the response. It's actually true – Ranpo had you bringing him so many snacks it’s like he thought you were the goddamn Easter Bunny, yet you could never quite bring yourself to say ‘no’ to him. “Thrilling stuff, I know.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe you need someone to show you some thrills, you know?”
A smirk accompanied that, and you dutifully waited for the butterflies in your stomach, or a flicker of intrigue, or something, but your ardour remained stubbornly cool. Frustration bubbled inside you, and you took a big gulp of your drink. It was like you were jamming keys you knew fit into the ignition of a car, but every time you turned it, the engine would not turn on, no matter how much you tried to will it to life.
But going home would feel like quitting. Like admitting defeat. Like you're really saying: I'm so obsessed with my co-worker who is both terrible and far too good for me that I can't give anyone else a chance. Sad, huh?
“Excuse me for a sec,” you said instead, flashing a smile you didn’t feel, rising to your feet. “I’ll be right back.”
He waved a hand in acknowledgement, and you could tell he was watching you as you headed for the ladies’ room, the heat of it making you strangely uneasy, knowing his eyes were going down your body, cataloguing. For sure he was looking at your ass in the dress.
The ladies’ room was blessedly quiet, and you splashed some water on your face, staring down your reflection, hands braced either side of the sink.
What am I doing here? You thought, and sighed.
It’s just a lacklustre date. You’ve gone on them before and usually put no further thought into them once you took off your makeup and outfit and slipped into bed. There are millions of people in the world, the odds of being instantly compatible with someone seemed like a rare enough thing not to take too personally.
But looking at yourself in your red dress, your hair washed and makeup still nice (if getting slightly smudgy – most of your lipgloss had already transferred to the rim of your glass), you didn’t feel like some kind of sexy badass like you’d been going for.
You just felt kind of stupid, to be honest.
You really thought you did something, didn’t you? A nasty inner voice sneered at you. You thought this was like a movie where you could put on a slutty dress, have an amazing date with a cute guy and magically cure your shitty life? You thought this would fix anything?
You hated that the bitchy voice was right.
“You stupid bitch.” You muttered out loud, your reflection mouthing the words back at you, and you shook your head and exited the toilets before somebody walked in on the stranger talking to herself.
Perhaps the drinks are hitting you a little harder than you thought, because a vague fuzz of light-headedness descended on you as you walked towards your booth, and you decided that you liked it. It took the edge of your self-consciousness and made you forget how this wasn’t the kind of dress you usually wore, or that you were going on a stupid date to get over your feelings for a co-worker who was literally a hazard to one’s health.
But then, just as you got back to your seat, younearly tripped over yourself in shock when you got to the booth and the back of the seated man’s head was definitely not the man you’d come into the bar with.
You’d know those fluffy brown locks anywhere.
“Dazai, what the fuck?!“ you said, then remembered to lower your voice into a hiss, anger coming to you in a sharp burst, like opening a bottle that’s been shaken up first. “You can’t just come in here and- “
Dazai turned his head and your ranting abruptly halted. His face was devoid of its usual playful smirk and the sparkle of mischief in his eyes, eyes that looked brown but when the light hit them just right, they got this golden sheen that looked just like honey…
You were distracted for a second, and Dazai’s voice cut through the fog.
“I don’t have time to explain, we have to move now.”
Something in his voice froze your anger – it had dropped an octave from his usual light-hearted, teasing tone he often adopted to annoy Kunikida or trick Atsushi into doing something for him. No, Dazai wasn’t playing around, and your stomach dropped when you caught the look on his face.
More questions teemed on your tongue, but he was standing up, up, out of the seat and away from the little booth, grabbing your arm as he rushed by. Your half-finished drink lay abandoned and unpaid for – you knew Dazai had a habit of dine and dashing and apparently he was putting it to good use now.
He dragged you through the kitchen, so quickly that the yells of surprise from the cooks were already far behind you as he opened the door to the back of the bar and you’d stepped into the cool outside air. Dazai didn’t pause in his stride or let go of your arm and you realised to your chagrin that you’d left your jacket behind in the booth. You could only hope some kind soul would hand it in to the place to hold onto, though they might not feel like returning it since you’d just disappeared without paying for your drink.
“Dazai, slow down-" you said, doing your damndest to keep up with him – you’re not exactly dressed for running. “What’s going on?”
“Your date isn’t just your average Joe, I’m afraid.” Dazai replied, grimly, apparently deciding that telling you something was more practical than refusing to go into detail and risking a mutiny. “I’m not sure where you found this guy, but he’s there to try and pump information about the Armed Detective Agency from you.”
Your stomach twisted unpleasantly – you barely had time to register the chilly sting of disappointment, like cool air from a fast moving vehicle whipping by you.
“What the fuck – how could you possibly know that?” you spluttered, before another, unwelcome possibility struck you. “Were you… following me?!”
“Of course I was.” He said, in a voice that sounded a bit more like his usual one – that annoying, teasy, I-know-something-you-don’t-know tone that usually got him slapped upside the head by Kunikida.
Your indignant squawk was cut off when he wrenched at your arm and suddenly, you’d stopped running and were enveloped in cool darkness. He’d found some kind of little snicket that somebody passing at a reasonable pace would probably have missed. You’re not surprised that Dazai was well-acquainted with hidden away little spots like that.
“Dazai-" you said again, frustrated and slightly out of breath – why was he stopping?
“Ssh.” He said.
In the distance you could hear the screeching of a car – no, more than one car – and an even more distant wailing of sirens. His arms caged you in and he was staring over his shoulder intently, like a fox that has heard the baying of the hounds.
“No doubt the Port Mafia’s goons are out looking for their little friend now.” He muttered, more to himself than you. It was like he’d forgotten you were there. “It’s for the best if this doesn’t get traced back to the Armed Detective Agency.”
Your mouth felt dry suddenly, noting the calculating look in Dazai’s eyes and unease crawled up your back. It’s so easy to forget that Dazai used to be one of them, that he knew the way they think and that he’s capable of switching back into that mode with frightening ease. Just because you’re co-workers didn’t mean you knew much about him, and you’re being made painfully aware of that fact right now.
“Dazai…just what did you do?” you asked, and you couldn’t hide the faint hitch in your voice.
Did he drag the guy outside and kill him? Was that why the police sirens were coming closer? If you pulled back the front of his coat right now, would his immaculate white shirt be splattered with still-wet blood? Does he think you told the guy something valuable? You didn’t think Dazai would hurt you – but you couldn’t be completely, one-hundred percent sure.
What did you really know about Osamu Dazai?
“Don’t worry. The Port Mafia don’t take kindly when you mess with one of their own,” Dazai said, seemingly able to discern your mounting fears with a glance, perhaps the look in your eyes or the tremor when you spoke gave you away. “He’ll live, but he’ll think twice before he tries using someone from the Agency like that.”
Thank god for that. You think – not that you would have lost too much sleep over one ex-Port Mafia member, but the thought of being stuck in a tiny space with a man who had just recently murdered someone wasn’t exactly the kind of exciting activity you’d hoped for tonight.
“So, we should get out of here,” you said, swallowing. “While they’re still swarming the bar.”
“Not yet. They’ll be looking for people running for public transport.” Dazai replied, his voice so certain that you didn’t question him further – why would you? This was all new territory for you, whereas Dazai had been doing this kind of thing since he was fifteen.
“So then what-?”
But you both fell silent as you heard something else – voices, drawing closer. Dazai swore softly under his breath, and he leaned in a little closer to you like he was trying to shield you from view with his body. You could feel yourself starting to sweat from the intensity of it, fighting back a grimace as you felt a trickle of it sliding down the length of your upper arm. Fuck.
"I'm sorry," Dazai said, after a beat, when the voices had drawn so close that you swore any second - any second! – they were going to find you and maybe kill you, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears.
And Dazai truly sounded regretful - he really was a good actor.
“I'm going to have to kiss you."
He didn't give you pause to process his words, which came to you as if from far away, floating to your ears, because the next thing you knew, long slender fingers were cupping your jaw, turning your face and his mouth was sliding over yours.
Most first kisses are awkward, fumbling affairs. Getting used to someone else's rhythm, trying not to do something awkward and mood-killing like clash teeth or bite the other person's tongue can slow things down, cause a few seconds where the spell is broken.
Kissing Dazai - or rather, being kissed by him, was nothing like that.
He kissed you like he'd been given a guide. Like he knew you, intrinsically and deeply, and knew the inner workings of your mind and mouth better than you did. One hand stayed cradling your jaw, the other one slid down, and his long, elegant fingers wrapped around your waist, pulling you in until you were pressed flush against him. It didn’t escape your notice that his crotch was also touching you and you were decidedly grateful his mouth was firmly joined with yours, or you might have actually whimpered out loud.
How often had you dreamed of this? Your nights had been full of sordid little fantasies of Dazai, of dropping your guard and confessing to him, and then, in your mind, he’d smile and tell you he’d always known, before he kissed you. Or depending on how raunchy you were feeling, other times you’d picture him just sweeping everything off your desk in a dramatic gesture and fucking you right then and there on the desk?
And all of it had seemed so stupid and pathetic than you’d be stinging with shame after your late-night fantasies reached their climax, lusting so hard over someone who probably barely noticed you were present in the room. Falling for Dazai’s looks was one thing, but you saw what he was like on a day-to-day basis, how he was lazy and unprofessional and sometimes kind of an asshole. But cold logic would not touch your yearning.
And now, in this cold, cramped little forgotten pocket of Yokohama, Dazai was putting your daydreams to shame. Your lips tingled as if you’d kissed something with a high voltage, heat surging along your bloodstream. Dazai’s touch was gentle but firm and the way he tilted his head, angling yours at his preference, sent a thrill chasing down your spine.
The voices were now right across from you, within arm’s reach, but Dazai felt you stiffen in fear and simply deepened the kiss, holding you tightly to him.
“Nevermind. Nobody’s here ‘cept some lovebirds.” A man’s rough voice said and it sounded so close, you could practically smell him, but you forced yourself to tune him out like someone deep in the throes of passion would, to sink into the sensation of Dazai’s hands on you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, the pleasant scent of him, sort of like freshly-cut wood and whisky.
“Come on, let’s go this way, they probably took the subway.”
The footsteps go the opposite direction, you hear one of the Port Mafia grunts swearing as he walks through a puddle, and the fear pricking you recedes. Dazai had one eye open, scanning behind you, before he finally breaks the kiss and pulled back. You felt bereft, but you were also seized by the abrupt urge to laugh at the sparkly smudge of gloss on the corner of his mouth.
“Nicely done,” Dazai remarked, his eyes cutting down at you, and his lips curved in a smirk. “Almost like it was real.”
“Yeah,” you replied, trying to sound ironic, but you sounded far too breathy to be sufficiently aloof. “Almost.”
Dazai’s hand had not left your waist yet and he stepped out of the hiding place, pulling you after him.
“Stay close to me,” he instructed, his voice husky. “We’re not out of danger yet.”
You nodded and wiped your mouth on the back of the wrist.
With Dazai, danger was a given. You just hoped you’d come out of it in one piece – in more ways than one. But your voice was steady as you answered;
“Then let’s go.”
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